


And It Was Foretold

by MiHnn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 21:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1703936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/pseuds/MiHnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he turns to look at her, his eyes dark and tired, a scar marred on his face, she stares at him as he stares at her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And It Was Foretold

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I wrote for my dear friend, angel_in_tears, for the Christmas Gift Giveaway.

By day he is a brother in black, a Commander of the Night’s Watch, ordering men older than him, studying maps and making plans, but at night, he is simply a brother, hearing the screams of his little sister as the Bastard of Bolton tortures her. He sleeps not a wink past a few hours and he awakes each time before sunrise with sweat on his brow and his sister’s name on his lips. 

_Arya_ , he thinks. _Be safe_ , he prays. 

Each day it is harder to ignore the raven that was sent. Each day he contemplates desertion. When the wildlings and his brothers work alongside each other, Jon studies the wall and its defences. He thinks it is better to go by night, to steal a horse and ride long and hard to the south of the wall, to go to Winterfell and cut the Bastard’s throat. He thinks saving his sister will be worth losing his head. And as he contemplates this and watches the wall, studying her weaknesses, it does not pass his notice that another studies him. 

The red lady smiles whenever their glances meet, her eyes full of knowledge of what is to come. But Jon does not trust her. She is his last hope and he cannot bring himself to believe the words that drip like honey past her lips. 

“You worry too much, young Lord Snow,” she tells him one day as they stand atop of the wall. Even covered with many layers of fur his skin freezes, yet the woman stands before him in a thin layer of red, her skin warm despite the increasing cold. “Your sister is safe.” She says the words as if they are worth more than gold, a small quirk of her lips proving to him that she knows something more, something that she dare not say. “She is not with the Bastard of Bolton, of that I am certain.”

Jon grits his teeth in an effort to stop himself from saying something he will regret. Beyond him lies the vastness that is the north, covered in snow and hiding creatures that cannot be killed by a mortal blade. “How can you be so certain?” he asks her, his voice betraying his mistrust in all things this lady holds dear. He loves his sister, and for her, he shall willingly give up the defences of Westeros. 

The red lady smiles as the wind billows around her, her hair dancing beside her like a flame. “Because the Lord of Light has said it so. Fear not, Lord Snow, for your sister is meant to play a greater part in this world than you or I realise. She is for the Lord of Light’s command, and so, she must journey to where his influence is most needed.” 

It takes a moment for Jon to comprehend her words, a moment longer for the word, “Braavos?” to pass his lips. 

Her smile widens as she takes in a deep breath. “She is safe. She is not the one at Winterfell.”

The lightness in his chest tightens considerably. “But there is someone who the Bastard holds captive?”

The red lady nods, her expression stoic and unaffected. “Yes, there is.”

 _She could still be Arya_ , Jon thinks madly. _The Priestess might yet be wrong._

As he turns from her he thinks of the wall’s defences. He cannot leave his sister to be tortured. If it is not her, the sister who’s hair he used to mess, he must be made certain. 

Jon has waited long enough, heeding the words of a red priestess he does not trust for fear that her falsity may be true. 

He must ride to Winterfell.

*

It is in the dead of night when he prepares. He takes only the letter he had received from the Bastard, whilst his sword hangs safely in its sheath and he stays warm wrapped in his furs. He thinks of his father, as he prepares, and of Robb. His mind falls on Bran and Rickon, too young to have been taken from life. He briefly thinks of Catelyn Stark, and thinks that this one thing she might approve of him had she lived. 

He is packing drawn maps in his satchel when word comes from his fellow brother. Grenn does not knock, but the door swings open and he pants words with deep breaths.

“Your… sister…”

Jon stares at him, fear settling inside of him at the news of his sister’s death. “What is it?” 

Grenn continues to pant, clutching his chest as if the very act of breathing hurts me.

“Tell me!” Jon demands, his gloved hands clutching the man’s leather.

“She’s here,” Grenn says. 

Two words, and yet they make Jon release his brother and step back. “Here? What do you mean ‘here’?”

“She’s at the Wall, Jon. She’s here.”

Jon does not listen to another word as he drops his satchel and runs. With each corner he turns, his brothers urge him on, and he knows instantly, that the news had reached them before him. By the time he reaches the large doors of Castle Black, his grin is wide, his eyes are happy, only for his smile to fall instantly when he sees the girl in the soldier’s arms. 

She does not have the colouring of a Stark, but the colouring of a Tully. 

He moves slowly towards the girl as her head rests on the armoured chest of a soldier wearing the crest of House Arryn. Her eyes are closed, but her hair, kissed by fire, falls freely over her shoulders. She is older than he remembers, her skin pale and taught and as her eyes stay closed as if she is but asleep.

“Lord Commander,” the soldier says strongly, his arms shifting the bundle that has not moved for quite a while. “A gift from Lord Baelish. He sends his regards.”

Jon grits his teeth in anger, the fingers of his burned hand flexing without thought. “What is wrong with her?”

“She was too weak to travel far. The King’s Road was not an easy journey. I lost two of my men to bandits.”

“How many men did you travel with?” 

“I was one of the five knights sent from the Vale. Your men were kind enough to offer my men food before our journey back.”

“That is good news indeed, Sir.” Stepping forward, Jon takes his sister from the arms of the knight, settling her against him carefully. “Thank you, for keeping her safe. I owe you a debt. Please, join me for supper this evening. There is much we need to discuss.”

The knight’s nod is short and stern. “Aye, Lord Commander. There is much we must discuss.”

Jon shares a nod with the knight before he is escorted away by two of his men. The Lord Commander then starts for his chambers, a Stark in his arms and a sadness settling in his chest.

*

She awakes to the sound of hushed whispers and warmth, soft furs tickling her nose and a sense of comfort settling all around her. She opens her eyes to see the fire crackling in the fireplace, the warm glow of the flames falling over her like a friend once forgotten. Her fingers tremble as she sits up carefully in the bed she is lying in, before she wraps a quilt across her shoulders. 

Her steps are slow as she moves towards the only door in a very cold room, her heart beating maddeningly in careful panic. The voices become louder with each step, yet she does not recognise the tone until she steps out of the room carefully only to see a face long forgotten. 

_He looks like father,_ she thinks, as a pang settles in her chest, whilst a woman dressed in red meets her eyes with a smile. 

When he turns to look at her, his eyes dark and tired, a scar marred on his face, she stares at him as he stares at her. It has been so long since they had laid eyes on each other. Even before their separation, they were never known for affectionate words. 

“I see wolf in you,” the woman says with deep knowledge, her smile soft yet deadly. She then turns towards Jon, her voice becoming on an ethereal and affectionate. “But not as it is in you.”

The woman turns towards Sansa, her smile in place, as she steps closer to look at her as if she is inspecting that which is treasure. “You are older than you are. Far older than you should be. Tell me, young dove, what dreams plague that of a heart eater?”

As Sansa pulls the quilt tighter around her like armour, Jon steps forward, his voice quiet but stern. “She needs rest.”

The woman continues to eye Sansa carefully, even though her smile speaks of things hidden. “She needs _you_ ,” she says to Jon, “yet not in the way you suppose.”

Jon straightens considerably, his lips pursing with displeasure. “The good lady must be in need of your services. You surely need not be late.”

A sparkle in the woman’s eye fascinates Sansa, for here is a woman who does not do as the men command. “Surely,” she says with a teasing lilt to her voice, “Lord Commander.” 

The woman leaves, closing the door behind her, and Sansa’s eyes widen at that piece of knowledge she imparted on Sansa before she left. 

“Lord Commander?” she asks, because she can scarcely believe it. 

There is something that flinches inside of him, for he looks away from her and gestures onto the table that is littered with maps. On the table sits a lonely platter with black bread and beans. “You must be hungry. I apologise, for we do not have better food. The winter is long here.”

Sansa feels her stomach rumble, but she does not move. She continues to watch him as he watches her. 

The way he looks at her makes her think that he wants something more from her, something that only she can give. 

“Are you angry with me?” she asks, because she feels that she simply must know this. 

His back is still stiff. “No,” he says, his eyes falling away from hers. 

She does not believe him. There is something he is not telling her, something that has made his shoulders stiffen and his lips form a thin line. “You must eat,” he tells her, before he leaves her without another word. 

She waits until her stomach rumbles again, to heed his advice.

*

She spends her days in the Lord Commander’s chambers. The fire is warm and welcoming, yet at night, the stone around her freezes, making her grateful for the furs she is given. She never sees Jon as often as she expects. He visits her every evening with food, questions her briefly on Petyr Baelish and her well being, before he leaves, curtly and without further thought. 

She tells him what he knows, which is nothing. The lions were assembling, the whispers were known to say, and Petyr sent her away, not telling her where he was sending her to. She tells Jon everything, everything that she must from her life in King’s Landing to her life in the Vale. She had gone without question, for is that not what a good, obedient daughter does?

She is as lonely as she once was when she had been a prisoner in the Red Keep, and even though she may leave when she pleases, the knowledge that Castle Black is manned by murderers and rapers keep her to her chambers. 

Then there are the visits from the red lady that keeps her company.

Melisandre, they call her, a Priestess who rode with Stannis Baratheon whilst keeping him loyal and whispering in his ear. 

Sansa hears the whispers of the men when they think she is not listening. They say Melisandre now whispers in Jon’s ear, that she has his confidence. 

It is not new the way Melisandre looks at Jon, Sansa thinks. She sees the way the red lady watches him as he walks the Wall and tends to business, even when he asks after Sansa in such a maddeningly polite way that no one, save those privy to the knowledge would know that they share blood as well as history. 

But Jon does not notice her. No, when Jon walks the Wall and Sansa watches him, his eyes will always stray to her, and no where he is, his head cocks up until his gaze falls on her figure, bright red hair against the black that is Castle Black. 

He does not say a word, and neither does she, but there is a camaraderie there, an understanding that Sansa does not quite understand. 

“He likes you,” Melisandre will say one day, as she sips mulled wine beside the hearth only to whisper, “You like him,” on another day when the wind is too chilly to bear. 

Sansa stays silent for these visits, that she knows is done behind Jon’s back. He has told her more than once not to trust the red lady, for he does not trust her, and he thinks she should be just as cautious. 

Melisandre’s smile never wanes when she speaks, the spark in her eyes tells a story that Sansa seems too innocent to understand. She tells Sansa whispers that Sansa gladly ignores. 

All save for one. 

Save for one that Melisandre says she has spoken to Jon of.

*

It is a few days past when she moves to drop the formalities between herself and her bastard brother. Her memories of him have always been with Robb, with the two as thick as thieves, laughing and playing, sparring with wooden swords before they were old enough to fight with steal. She does not remember him quite as he is now: serious and stern, with a darkness in his eyes where light used to once be. 

But she supposes that she is the same. She was once innocent and hopeful, yet she is now as hardened as many others, the bruises on her heart still strong although those of her flesh had finally begun to fade away. 

She is keeping a fur on the stone close to the fire, sitting on the soft hairs and tucking her bare feet under her dress in thought, when he finds her. He brings her meal without a word, making a move to leave as he has always done. But she stops him with a word; she stops him with his name.

“Jon!” He pauses, his tired eyes looking at her curiously. “Stay with me a while.” He looks ready to refuse, but she pleads with him to stay. “Please.”

He stays standing for a moment before he makes his way to the fur. He sits opposite her, and she places the platter of food between them. 

He eyes her like he would eye a predator who is stalking towards him, and Sansa flinches at the way he distrusts her. 

“Father is dead,” she says suddenly. “So is mother, Robb, Bran and Rickon. I do not know what has become of Arya…”

“She’s safe,” he says strongly before looking away from her. “She must be.”

She nods, her fingers absentmindedly pulling on a thread on her worn gown. “You’re alive,” she says quietly. “You’re keeping me safe.” Cautiously, she reaches forward and places her hand gently on his. “Thank you.” His hands are larger than hers, harder and more weathered, yet when he turns his hand over and touches her palm with his, she shivers and entwines her fingers with his. She watches the way he watches their hands and she wonders if this is something they should not be doing. 

His next words come carefully, with a touch of anger beneath his tone. “Did they hurt you?”

Her brows furrow in confusion, only for her gaze to follow his. She tries to pull away her hand, but he keeps his grip on her tightly, his eyes darkening with anger at the angry welt that is fading from her skin. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says quickly.

When he looks at her, she feels a shiver travel up her spine, for she has never seen his eyes so dark, so angry. “Who hurt you?”

“Jon…”

“Tell me.”

Leaning forward, she places a hand on his stubbled cheek, watching the way his eyes widen as a spark returns to his gaze. “Am I not safe here? You will keep me safe, won’t you?”

He simply looks at her, studying her as if he is seeing her for the first time. “You’ve changed.”

Her hand falls from his cheek as she smiles softly at him. “So have you.” 

His chuckle is small and dry. “What a pair are we? The bastard girl and the bastard Lord Commander.”

She smiles despite how it hurts. “I prefer being a bastard.”

He looks at her as if he is studying her carefully, his thumb stroking her wrist without thought. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I wish you had been safe. I wish Father hadn’t taken Lady away from you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says a moment later. “I treated you ill when we were children.” 

He looks away from her again, and Sansa thinks that this is a habit she must break. 

“Jon?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But, it does.”

He looks at her briefly and shakes his head. “It doesn’t.”

She wishes nothing more than to comfort him. He reminds her of a broken robin she once helped heal so far away in a castle in the clouds, and that is what she intends when she raises her hand to his cheek once again to keep his eyes on her. 

“It did matter, didn’t it?”

She can see it in his eyes, and she urges him to speak the truth with a look. “Yes,” he whispers quite suddenly. “It mattered.”

The thumping of her heart increases when she realises the pain she had caused as a child, but it expands in surprise when Jon leans forward and kisses her. 

The kiss is warm and brief, and he pulls away instantly with an apology on his lips. 

“Forgive me.” He drops her hand and moves to stand up. “I didn’t mean…” He exhales and apologises again. “Forgive me.” He leaves without saying another word, and Sansa touches her lips with shaking fingers as she thinks back to something the red lady had told her long ago. 

_”Never fear, young dove, for the kings of old smile down on your union. You shall unite the south, he shall unite the north, and together, you will begin the golden age of peace. He is not your brother, but your cousin and your king. And you, Sansa, will be his queen. He does not accept his role, but someday he will.”_


End file.
